"Watch the road, Maggie!"
"If you'd come up here where I can see you, and not slink back there in the shadows, I might not be running off the road. And furthermore," I added as he moved up beside me, "what are you doing hiding in my vehicle anyway?"
"It wasn't hard to figure where you'd go," he said. "Nothing about you is hard. In fact, I have come to the conclusion that you are probably too stupid to take care of yourself." He was just warming up. "Obviously, being attacked in your own home hasn't scared you off, so I doubt anything else will either. But you're gonna die if I don't watch out for you."
"Why don't you look for the money your way, and I'll look mine?"
Carlucci turned in his seat. "Maggie, I'm going out on a limb here, and if I'm wrong, well, I'll apologize later, but I'm saying it anyway. I think you're putting yourself in danger to avoid looking at what's really going on."
"What?"
Carlucci shrugged. "Yeah, that's what I think. We both know you can't find that missing money any better than me or the cops or Nosmo's people. You could be somewhere safe, taking care of your little girl, but no, you're out here, and any smart person's gotta wonder why."
I was almost on Eugene Street, a short hop to the police department. Five minutes from now I'd be sitting with my daughter, listening to Weathers try and worm his way out of having arrested Vernell Spivey.
"And I suppose you're so smart you've got it all figured," I said.
"Maybe not that smart, but I've got ideas. Look at what just happened here," he said. "I tell you that one of my reasons for being around is to look after you and Sheila, and what do you do? You start in on me. You change the subject. You're scared of me, Maggie. I frighten you 'cause there's nothing holding me back. I am completely available, and I like you, and you know it. So go on, Maggie, run away. Just don't get your kid killed over it, okay?"
I stopped the van, pulling it over against the curb into a tow-away zone. I couldn't think. I couldn't hear for the roar of blood that thundered in my ears. I wanted to kill him.
"That is so totally unfair!" I yelled.
Carlucci just looked at me.
"I would not jeopardize my daughter's life! That is not true! I can't believe you'd even say something like that!"
I wanted to tear him apart. I wanted to scream and scream and scream until he went away or said he was wrong and I was right, but he just sat there, waiting.
"Vernell needs me," I said. "No one believes he's innocent."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Bess King does. He doesn't need you. You need him. You need to be needed. You wouldn't know what to do if someone wanted you just for you and not for what you can do for them."
"Shut up!"
"Marshall Weathers," he said, "another prime example. I didn't have to spend thirty minutes with the man to see what a piece of work he is. You can still see the pale spot on his ring finger, Maggie. He's just another wounded bird."
I lashed out at him then, swinging my hand up to hit his face, stopped by his hand grabbing my arm.
"Let me go!" I jerked my arm back, but he wouldn't release me. He pulled me closer, leaning across until I felt myself backing away.
"See," he whispered, "you're afraid of me."
"No I'm not," I said, my voice even through clenched teeth. But my heart was racing, and the van was suddenly too close and confining.
Carlucci reached over and hit the button that held my seatbelt in place. He moved, grabbed my legs, and turned me to face him.
I froze, knowing what was coming, remembering the last time he'd kissed me and called me scared. I was not going to back away. I'd show him it didn't matter. And when he reached out to cup my chin, I went to him. His kiss was gentle, but mine was not. I pushed. I kissed him hard, ignoring his attempt to be tender, until he at last responded as I had, giving in to some force that ran between us like a current.
"There," I said, pushing away and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Still think I'm so frightened?" I looked at him and hated him.
I saw the hurt flare up then pass away and the inky blackness return to his eyes. "You are really terrified," he said. "Whoever hurt you cut deep, didn't he?"
I reached for my seatbelt and snapped it back in place. "If I need a therapist, I'll pay one," I said, and pulled back out into traffic.
Chapter Twenty-three
I didn't need to worry about Sheila Lynn Spivey. It was Detective Marshall J. Weathers who needed prayers and divine intervention. By the time I dumped Tony Carlucci out of Bonnie's van, returned it to her, and scooted over to the police department, half an hour had passed and Weathers was firmly roasting on the skewer of Sheila's rapierlike anger. There is nothing like a scornful adolescent to rattle the cage of your self-assurance. And Miss Sheila was one dynamite cage shaker.
Weathers led me to her. He had not isolated her in an interview room, knowing that this would not be appropriate, but the price he paid was that every detective and support staff member of C.I.D. had full access to the exact extent of Sheila's wrath.
"She's been giving me hell," he said when he came for me.
"Uh-huh," I answered.
"I can't seem to get her to calm down. She just goes on and on. I told her we're looking at all the evidence. I told her that I didn't want to arrest her daddy, but I had no choice. Why won't she listen?"
He seemed genuinely perplexed. I said nothing, just followed silently behind him, thankful that my little girl was indeed all right.
When we rounded the corner into his cubicle, I saw her. She sat across from his desk in a battered metal chair with a vinyl seat cushion that had ripped and spilled a thin crumble of ancient, spongy filling.
Her legs were sprawled out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and she slouched in the chair with her arms crossed and a giant wad of bubble gum stuck in her mouth. On her lap was a puppy of indistinguishable heritage. Despite her attempts to dress otherwise, Sheila looked five years old.
"Hey, babe," I said, stroking her hair as I pulled up a chair next to her.
Sheila looked over at me with the same frown she'd been reserving for Weathers. "Whatever," she said softly. Then, sensing a probable ally, she straightened up, glared at Weathers and turned to face me.
"Mama," she said, "you're, like, over him, right?"
I groaned silently and felt myself melt under the intensity of her gaze.
"Sheila, let's focus on what's going on here. I thought I told you to stay on Darlene and Earl's farm. They are worried sick. And technically, you stole your uncle's truck."
Sheila sighed impatiently. "Whatever, Mama," she said. "But somebody had to take care of Daddy."
And the awful realization hit. I was raising her to be just like me.
"No, honey, Daddy can take care of himself."
"From a freaking jail cell? Oh, I think not." She turned her attention back to Weathers. "All right. You've got Daddy's gun as the murder weapon. But there was no gunpowder residue on his hands, was there?"
Sheila tossed her hair like she'd just played a trump card and Marshall hid a smile.
"Too much time had elapsed, Sheila," he said. "The test wouldn't have shown anything."
"So, like, what would be his motive?"
"There's three million dollars missing."
"Oh well, like, duh. My dad is so stupid he'd shoot someone when everyone knew he was going off with the guy? My dad is not that stupid."
Before Weathers could answer, I stopped the process. "Baby, this won't get you anywhere. I've called in Roth Carruthers. He'll try and get Daddy out on bail tomorrow."
Sheila drew her long legs up and stood, cradling the sleeping puppy in her arms. She looked at each of us. "So, this is being adult, huh? You call a big-shot lawyer and try to act all civil about it." Her voice dripped with rage and contempt. "Well," she said, looking at Weathers, "I don't think that's honest. I say you're a big, stupid jerk. And I say, if you come near me and my mom, I'll…"